Page 65 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings (Alpha Mafia Kings #1)

The figure stepped forward, into the pool of light from the security lamp, and I caught a glimpse of his face—handsome, with a strong jawline and eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light.

Just another man in an expensive suit, but something about the way he carried himself suggested he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

“Doesn’t look like a friendly conversation to me,” the stranger said, his gaze moving from Brad to the businessmen, assessing and dismissing them in the same glance. Then his eyes landed on me, and something flickered across his face—concern, maybe, or simple distaste for what he was witnessing.

“Mind your own business,” the older businessman growled, trying to assert dominance.

The stranger smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The omega is my business.”

Before anyone could react, three more men emerged from the car, all carrying themselves with the unmistakable confidence of security personnel. They didn’t draw weapons, didn’t make threats. They didn’t need to. Their presence alone was enough to change the calculation.

The businessmen exchanged glances, clearly reassessing the situation. After a tense moment, the older one nodded curtly.

“Another time, perhaps,” he said, as if declining a business lunch rather than a sexual assault. He gestured to his companion, and they both backed away, returning to the restaurant’s rear entrance.

Brad lingered, looking uncertain, until the stranger fixed him with a stare that could have frozen hell. “You should go.”

Brad turned around and hightailed it out of there.

I stood frozen, unsure if I’d just escaped one danger only to face a greater one. The stranger approached slowly, hands visible at his sides, as if I were a skittish animal he was trying not to frighten.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

I shook my head, finding my voice. “No. Thank you for… intervening. Though I totally had it under control. I was just about to unleash my secret omega ninja skills.”

He nodded, studying me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. “You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.”

“I don’t need a lecture on omega safety right now, thanks,” I snapped, my fear giving way to irritation. “I just need to get home without being auctioned off to the highest bidder. Is that really too much to ask in this century?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Of course. Can we offer you a ride?”

“No offense, but I don’t get into cars with strange alphas who appear out of nowhere. That’s like, rule number one in the How Not to Get Murdered handbook.”

He actually laughed at that, a warm sound that seemed at odds with his intimidating presence. “Smart. Then allow us to escort you to the main street, at least. Safety in numbers.”

I hesitated, weighing my options. The main street was still forty yards away, and Brad and the businessmen might be waiting for another opportunity. This stranger and his friends had just saved me, but that didn’t mean I could trust them. For all I knew, they were just eliminating the competition.

“Fine,” I decided. “To the main street. Then we go our separate ways. No following me home, no exchanging numbers, no ‘let’s get coffee sometime.’”

He nodded, gesturing for me to lead the way. I walked quickly, acutely aware of him beside me and his men following a few paces behind. None of them tried to touch me or crowd me, which I appreciated.

“I’m Marco,” he said simply as we neared the street.

“Ty,” I replied automatically, then cursed myself for giving my real name.

He simply nodded. “Stay safe, Ty. The city can be dangerous for someone like you.”

Before I could respond, we reached the main street, bustling with evening foot traffic. Marco stepped back, giving me space.

“Thank you again,” I said, suddenly awkward. “For helping me. Even though I could have taken them all with my pinky finger.”

“My pleasure.” His smile was polite, professional. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

When I looked back after a few steps, Marco was already walking toward the alley, his men falling into step beside him. I shivered, unable to shake the feeling that I’d just had a very narrow escape—though from what, exactly, I wasn’t entirely sure.

I headed for the bus stop, eager to put as much distance as possible between myself and the restaurant. Tomorrow I’d have to find another job—the rent wouldn’t pay itself, and finding work as a male omega would be nearly impossible.

My apartment felt different when I finally reached it—warmer somehow, as if someone had been there recently. The air smelled faintly of something I couldn’t quite identify, something that made my nose twitch with curiosity.

“Hello?” I called, feeling foolish even as I did so. No one answered, of course.

I did a quick sweep of the small space, checking closets and under the bed, but found nothing out of place. If anything, the apartment was neater than I’d left it—the breakfast dishes washed and put away, the bed made with precise corners, a fresh bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table.

“Mrs. Patel’s been busy,” I murmured, though I was surprised by the attention to detail. The woman was efficient, not fussy. Maybe she was going soft in her old age. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, which was somehow worse.

I showered quickly, changed into sleep clothes, and collapsed into bed, too tired to even eat.

The sheets smelled fresh, like they’d just been laundered with a detergent slightly nicer than the bargain brand I usually bought.

Mrs. Patel must have changed them while I was at work.

I made a mental note to thank her tomorrow and maybe set some boundaries about entering my apartment when I wasn’t home, no matter how well intentioned her help might be.

As I drifted toward sleep, I caught a faint scent on the pillow, something subtle that tickled at the edge of my awareness. Probably just residue from whatever cleaning products Mrs. Patel had used, or maybe it was the laundry detergent.

For the first time in weeks, I didn’t dream of being hunted. I slept deeply, peacefully, like I was finally safe.

I dragged my exhausted body to work, every muscle aching intensely.

After telling Reynolds I quit last night, I’d spent hours staring at my ceiling early this morning, calculating how many days I could survive without income.

The answer was depressingly few. So here I was, crawling back to the only place that would hire an omega without paperwork, hoping Reynolds would pretend my dramatic exit never happened.

Pride is a luxury for people who can afford to eat.

When I pushed through the back door, the kitchen was already in full breakfast swing—line cooks shouting orders aggressively, servers rushing in and out with plates balanced precariously on their arms.

“Hart,” Reynolds barked, appearing suddenly with a clipboard. “Schedule change. You’re on mornings now, five a.m. to one p.m.”

I blinked, waiting for him to mention my dramatic exit last night or fire me on the spot. “Mornings? Since when?”

“Since now.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, which was unusual. Reynolds typically stared down omegas with intimidating intensity. “Early shift needs more coverage.”

“But you said the early shift was?—”

“Just take the damn schedule change,” he snapped, thrusting a printed sheet at me. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Lucky wasn’t the word I’d use. This had to be his revenge, forcing me to drag myself in at the ass-crack of dawn. Classic power move. Still, morning shifts meant fewer customers, which meant less chance of running into those businessmen with wandering hands and entitlement issues.

“Fine,” I said, pocketing the schedule. “I’m here now. Should I start on the breakfast dishes, or would you prefer I compose an epic poem about your leadership skills first?”

Reynolds just grunted and walked away, his usual swagger notably absent. As I tied on my apron, I noticed several staff members watching me with expressions that weren’t their usual “look, it’s the omega dishwasher, let’s make his life hell.” Instead, they looked almost… nervous?

“What’s his problem?” I asked Megan when she brought in a stack of plates. “Did someone replace his morning steroids with decaf?”

Megan glanced around before leaning closer, her blond ponytail swinging conspiratorially. “You didn’t hear? Reynolds got called to a meeting late last night.”

“What kind of meeting?”

She shrugged. “No idea, but he’s been walking on eggshells ever since. And get this—he fired Brad this morning.”

“Brad?” I stopped mid-scrape, a glob of congealed egg sliding sadly back into the sink.

“Reynolds told him to clear out his locker and not come back.” She raised an eyebrow significantly. “Caught him with his hand in the till, apparently. Oh, and those businessmen I told you about yesterday…”

“The ones who were getting handsy?”

“Yeah, heard they got mugged last night leaving some bar downtown. This neighborhood’s getting worse by the day.”

“Mugged?” I echoed. “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Is it, though?” Megan smirked. “Karma’s only a bitch if you are. Anyway, gotta run. Table six is having an existential crisis over their eggs Benedict.”

The shift passed in a strange haze of surrealistic normalcy.

The physical work was the same—endless dishes, steam that turned my skin to a prune, the smell of industrial detergent that would probably give me some exotic cancer in thirty years.

But everything else had shifted. Line cooks who used to “accidentally” bump into me now gave me a wide berth.

Servers who had ignored my existence suddenly remembered to say “please” and “thank you” when dropping off dirty dishes, like they’d all attended an emergency etiquette seminar.